A CLOTH BY ANY OTHER NAME
Image courtesy of Miriam Hamilton of The Weaving Shed
By Kyra Pollitt
In my childhood Ladybird storybook, Rumpelstiltskin, the heroine of the tale was tall, strong, fair, resourceful, and smart— just like the woman standing before me. Miriam Hamilton is also, in her way, trying to meet the challenge of spinning straw into gold. Well, of weaving wool into gold.
I meet Miriam on the Isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides, off the northwest coast of Scotland. The shop attached to her home is a treasure trove of jewel-hued tweeds, infused with the scent of lanolin. It opens onto the bright studio housing the Hattersley loom which Miriam works. She and her husband moved here five years ago, in pursuit of her dream to become a weaver of wool. Studying animal behaviour and wildlife conservation along the way, Miriam’s dream is to work the wool “from field to finish.”
Image courtesy of Miriam Hamilton of The Weaving Shed
Sheep came to the Outer Hebrides in the period known as The Clearances, between 1750 and 1860, when absentee landowners rushed to capitalise on the rising demand for wool and mutton that accompanied industrial urbanisation. Since large flocks of sheep could be tended by just one shepherd, the local, slow tradition of transhumance with cattle was disrupted, the island’s people often brutally displaced. The new livestock tended to be Hebridean, Blackface or Cheviot— hardy breeds whose fleeces boasted long ‘guard’ hairs to withstand the wild northern weather. But the remaining people proved hardy, too. The community adapted, and from 1840 the tweed the locals had always woven for their garments was rebranded and launched as the famous Harris Tweed. Known in the local Gaelic tongue as an clò-mòr— the big cloth —those long guard hairs lent the fabric both its renowned resilience and also that slight itch. Wool was a valuable commodity; farmers on the mainland could cover their annual rents by fleece sales alone. Woollen cloth was similarly prized, and the Harris Tweed industry boomed. Then post-war fashion began to turn to new, synthetic, fossil-fuelled wonder fibres. By the 1970s, inspired by the space race aesthetic, most wardrobes were bursting with disco nylon, polyester, acrylic, and spandex. Harris Tweed lay beleaguered, until Vivienne Westwood incorporated it into her 1988 Time Machine collection and, in 2003, Nike contacted Donald John Mackay, an independent weaver from the small village of Luskentyre, looking for fabric.
To earn the famous Orb hallmark, the wool must be spun on the island, and processed and finished at one of the three independent mills regulated by the Harris Tweed Authority; Stornoway, Carloway, or Shawbost. The mill at Shawbost devotes 80% of its production to Harris Tweed Hebrides, but the remaining 20% is processing for independent weavers, like Miriam. It is mandated that the independents only produce single width cloth, so they must wait for the mill machinery to be adjusted accordingly. Perhaps the most concerning adjustments for weavers like Miriam, though, are in the fortunes of wool.
In the UK, the Covid-19 pandemic saw the price of wool fall to its lowest ebb. The biggest consumer is the industry supplying floor coverings and upholstery to offices and the leisure trade— all of which were closed during our national lockdowns. As demand plummeted, so did the wholesale price. Averaging just thirty-two pence per kilo in 2019, the sale of the fleece didn’t even cover the £1.20 cost of shearing it, never mind the time and labour involved in keeping the fleeces clean before and during shearing, in dagging, skirting, rolling, bagging, and despatching them to the British Wool Board to be sorted and graded. As a result, many crofters started to shear their sheep later in the summer, when the new wool growth had ‘lifted’ the fleece too much for it to be of use to any spinner or weaver. Instead, fleeces were burned, buried, used to protect vegetable patches from winter frosts, or simply left to rot in fields. This despite growing consumer demand for natural fibres in anything from wall insulation to sustainable fashion. Rumour has it that one crofter, offering fleeces for free through Facebook, received over 3,000 replies— far more than the number of fleeces they had to hand. Although the average price had recovered slightly by 2021, to some 80 pence per fleece, there remains a systemic issue in the failure of UK manufacturers to adapt machinery designed for artificial fibres into machinery capable of handling natural ones.
Image courtesy of Miriam Hamilton of The Weaving Shed
Back on the Isle of Lewis, Miriam is resolute and undeterred. She still weaves and sells Harris Tweed but has now extended her repertoire by also weaving woollen tweed cloth from her small flock of Gotland sheep. Gotlands are ringleted sheep, whose wool has a much longer staple than the Hebrideans, Blackface or Cheviots. Each Gotland fibre is smooth, silky, pale, and soft at its base, ringleted and darker at its top. The gradation of colour allows her to weave undyed wool, producing lustrous, soft shawls, scarves, neck warmers, throws and cushions in all the gently variegated shades of a pebble.
But this is not Harris Tweed. The Gotland wool’s staple is not suited to the island’s mill machinery. Instead, Miriam must send the wool to the mainland to be spun. Then, after weaving, her cloth must go back to the mainland to be finished— that is, washed, cropped, and pressed—at a small, independent mill accustomed to processing mohair. Nonetheless, Miriam finds that customers interested in Harris Tweed also appreciate the integrity of her Gotland products. The diversification helps to keep the financial wolf from the door and brings Miriam a few steps closer to realising her field-to-finish ambitions.
When I visit, Miriam’s beloved Gotlands are out roaming the croft that slopes down towards Loch Leurbost. At the foot of the loom threaded with a warp and weft that perfectly mingle the colours of Hebridean waters, her golden-haired infant daughter is playing with brightly coloured empty yarn cones. Whatever fortunes our fabric industries might face as they return to sustainable, ecologically conscious practices, I leave reassured and comforted that true artisans, like Miriam, will always outsmart Rumpelstiltskin.
By Kyra Pollitt
In my childhood Ladybird storybook, Rumpelstiltskin, the heroine of the tale was tall, strong, fair, resourceful, and smart— just like the woman standing before me. Miriam Hamilton is also, in her way, trying to meet the challenge of spinning straw into gold. Well, of weaving wool into gold.
I meet Miriam on the Isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides, off the northwest coast of Scotland. The shop attached to her home is a treasure trove of jewel-hued tweeds, infused with the scent of lanolin. It opens onto the bright studio housing the Hattersley loom which Miriam works. She and her husband moved here five years ago, in pursuit of her dream to become a weaver of wool. Studying animal behaviour and wildlife conservation along the way, Miriam’s dream is to work the wool “from field to finish.”
Image courtesy of Miriam Hamilton of The Weaving Shed
Sheep came to the Outer Hebrides in the period known as The Clearances, between 1750 and 1860, when absentee landowners rushed to capitalise on the rising demand for wool and mutton that accompanied industrial urbanisation. Since large flocks of sheep could be tended by just one shepherd, the local, slow tradition of transhumance with cattle was disrupted, the island’s people often brutally displaced. The new livestock tended to be Hebridean, Blackface or Cheviot— hardy breeds whose fleeces boasted long ‘guard’ hairs to withstand the wild northern weather. But the remaining people proved hardy, too. The community adapted, and from 1840 the tweed the locals had always woven for their garments was rebranded and launched as the famous Harris Tweed. Known in the local Gaelic tongue as an clò-mòr— the big cloth —those long guard hairs lent the fabric both its renowned resilience and also that slight itch. Wool was a valuable commodity; farmers on the mainland could cover their annual rents by fleece sales alone. Woollen cloth was similarly prized, and the Harris Tweed industry boomed. Then post-war fashion began to turn to new, synthetic, fossil-fuelled wonder fibres. By the 1970s, inspired by the space race aesthetic, most wardrobes were bursting with disco nylon, polyester, acrylic, and spandex. Harris Tweed lay beleaguered, until Vivienne Westwood incorporated it into her 1988 Time Machine collection and, in 2003, Nike contacted Donald John Mackay, an independent weaver from the small village of Luskentyre, looking for fabric.
To earn the famous Orb hallmark, the wool must be spun on the island, and processed and finished at one of the three independent mills regulated by the Harris Tweed Authority; Stornoway, Carloway, or Shawbost. The mill at Shawbost devotes 80% of its production to Harris Tweed Hebrides, but the remaining 20% is processing for independent weavers, like Miriam. It is mandated that the independents only produce single width cloth, so they must wait for the mill machinery to be adjusted accordingly. Perhaps the most concerning adjustments for weavers like Miriam, though, are in the fortunes of wool.
In the UK, the Covid-19 pandemic saw the price of wool fall to its lowest ebb. The biggest consumer is the industry supplying floor coverings and upholstery to offices and the leisure trade— all of which were closed during our national lockdowns. As demand plummeted, so did the wholesale price. Averaging just thirty-two pence per kilo in 2019, the sale of the fleece didn’t even cover the £1.20 cost of shearing it, never mind the time and labour involved in keeping the fleeces clean before and during shearing, in dagging, skirting, rolling, bagging, and despatching them to the British Wool Board to be sorted and graded. As a result, many crofters started to shear their sheep later in the summer, when the new wool growth had ‘lifted’ the fleece too much for it to be of use to any spinner or weaver. Instead, fleeces were burned, buried, used to protect vegetable patches from winter frosts, or simply left to rot in fields. This despite growing consumer demand for natural fibres in anything from wall insulation to sustainable fashion. Rumour has it that one crofter, offering fleeces for free through Facebook, received over 3,000 replies— far more than the number of fleeces they had to hand. Although the average price had recovered slightly by 2021, to some 80 pence per fleece, there remains a systemic issue in the failure of UK manufacturers to adapt machinery designed for artificial fibres into machinery capable of handling natural ones.
Image courtesy of Miriam Hamilton of The Weaving Shed
Back on the Isle of Lewis, Miriam is resolute and undeterred. She still weaves and sells Harris Tweed but has now extended her repertoire by also weaving woollen tweed cloth from her small flock of Gotland sheep. Gotlands are ringleted sheep, whose wool has a much longer staple than the Hebrideans, Blackface or Cheviots. Each Gotland fibre is smooth, silky, pale, and soft at its base, ringleted and darker at its top. The gradation of colour allows her to weave undyed wool, producing lustrous, soft shawls, scarves, neck warmers, throws and cushions in all the gently variegated shades of a pebble.
But this is not Harris Tweed. The Gotland wool’s staple is not suited to the island’s mill machinery. Instead, Miriam must send the wool to the mainland to be spun. Then, after weaving, her cloth must go back to the mainland to be finished— that is, washed, cropped, and pressed—at a small, independent mill accustomed to processing mohair. Nonetheless, Miriam finds that customers interested in Harris Tweed also appreciate the integrity of her Gotland products. The diversification helps to keep the financial wolf from the door and brings Miriam a few steps closer to realising her field-to-finish ambitions.
When I visit, Miriam’s beloved Gotlands are out roaming the croft that slopes down towards Loch Leurbost. At the foot of the loom threaded with a warp and weft that perfectly mingle the colours of Hebridean waters, her golden-haired infant daughter is playing with brightly coloured empty yarn cones. Whatever fortunes our fabric industries might face as they return to sustainable, ecologically conscious practices, I leave reassured and comforted that true artisans, like Miriam, will always outsmart Rumpelstiltskin.